


Nine of Swords

by JhanaMay



Series: Arcana [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, Canon Compliant, M/M, Season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay
Summary: Dean struggles with Sam's refusal to forgive him for the choices he made in the aftermath of the Gates and Gadreel. But when Sam starts throwing himself in harm's way, Dean knows he has to put his foot down.Set vaguely after The Purge (9x13).
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Arcana [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551187
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Nine of Swords

“You have to stop doing that.”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t respond. He hasn’t met Dean’s eyes since they left the vamp nest, but that’s par for the course these days. He’s still pissed, and Dean knows he has a right to be, but it still rankles. The worst part is they both know if given the same set of circumstances, from bailing on closing the gates to Gadreel, if it kept Sam safe, Dean would do everything the exact same way. That’s what keeps them from moving on.

“I mean it,” Dean tries again, following Sam into the war room and dropping his duffle on the map table with a thud. He keeps his eyes averted from the spot where Kevin’s body had lain; he’s dealing with enough shit without piling that heap of guilt on top. “I get that you’re pissed at me, but you can’t go all John Wick without waiting for me.” Dean can still taste the panic in the back of his throat, the terror he’d felt when he realized that Sam had charged the nest without following their plan to figure out how many they were dealing with. “Being pissed won’t make a difference when they’re topping off from your jugular.”

“I can handle myself.” Sam’s voice is hard and cold, even harder and colder than it had been before they took this case.

“There were seventeen of them, Sam. Seventeen. Not even dad could take out seventeen vamps by himself. It’s like you have a death wish.”

Sam shrugs his coat off and the sleeve of his shirt is soaked with blood where one of the vamps had sliced him with his own machete. He winces, but yanks away when Dean steps forward. “I’m fine.”

Dean tries to swallow most of his irritation, but it’s still dripping from his words. “What the fuck? You might need stitches. Stow your shit for a minute and let me look at it.”

“Whatever.” He hefts his duffle with his good arm, ignoring Dean when he reaches for it, and starts down the hallway. The tightness in his shoulders is obvious from the back, but Dean knows it will be a cold day in hell before Sam lets him do anything about that. He’s going to have to settle for stitching the stubborn asshole up.

“Get that shirt off,” Dean orders as soon as they walk into Sam’s bedroom. At least Sam didn’t slam the door in his face this time.

It’s been three weeks since Dean’s stepped foot in here, but it looks exactly the same. The shirt thrown over the chair in the corner belongs to Dean, and his copy of Slaughterhouse-Five still lays on the table next to the bed. Dean swallows hard and looks away. Sam is alive and safe, and Dean would do it all again because  _ that  _ is what matters.

Sam pulls the bloody shirt over his head while Dean retrieves the suture kit from the cabinet over the sink. Dean closes the cabinet and watches Sam in the mirror. A month ago, he’d been able to look his fill, but Sam turns away any time he catches Dean looking now. It’s even worse tonight because Dean wants to run his hands down that broad chest, to feel warm skin under his palms and prove to himself that Sam is  _ fine _ . Alive and safe and no more banged up than either of them has gotten on a hundred hunts before.

“Are you going to do this?” Sam’s voice holds a bite of irritation that cuts worse than any blade. It’s not like they’ve never fought before—living in each other’s pockets all these years, the apocalypse and Ruby—but it’s never been this bad, or gone on for this long before. Every night, Dean lies awake in his own room, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Sam will ever forgive him. In the deepest part of the darkness, he can’t imagine what he’ll do if he won’t.

Dean takes his own advice and stows his shit before walking over to where Sam is perched on the edge of the bed, already holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The slice is about four inches long across the outside of Sam’s bicep. It’s clean, but still bleeding freely, and Dean takes some perverse pleasure from dumping antiseptic over it.

Sam sucks in a breath and shoots Dean a glare before taking a long swallow from the bottle. Dean shrugs. “Gotta make sure it doesn’t get infected,” he says before snatching the bottle to take his own drink before handing it back. No matter what, the whiskey never stops burning and Dean can always count on it like an old friend. He’s glad they’ve moved past the days when they needed to waste good booze cleaning out wounds.

Dean slathers some topical analgesic—and god, where has that been his whole life—over the cut and picks up the threaded needle. “You ready?”

Sam takes another big mouthful and makes a face when he swallows. “Just do it,” he rasps, his voice thready with pain but the edges are fuzzy from the booze kicking in.

Sticking a needle into Sam’s flesh is never fun, but this time it turns Dean’s stomach more than usual. The whole time he works with small, even stitches, he replays the fight in the carpet factory over and over. Turning and realizing Sam was gone, following the trail of headless bodies while picking off the stragglers, then reaching the storeroom where the nine remaining vamps had Sam cornered.

Dean’s hand jerks and he fights back a wave of nausea. When Sam takes another drink, Dean reaches for the bottle again. There’s less than a quarter of a bottle left now, and Dean takes a second swallow before handing it back. He’s slightly surprised when Sam tips it to his lips again.

When Dean leans in to continue stitching—he’s halfway done now—Sam doesn’t tense when Dean spreads his hand over Sam’s shoulder blade to steady him. The skin is warm and soft and solid under his palm. He’ll take that as a win.

Almost instinctively, Dean’s hand starts to caress. Small circles over smooth skin evolving into fingers kneading into tense muscles. When Dean presses on a particularly tight spot at the base of Sam’s neck, Sam lets out a soft breath of air that carries a moan. Dean’s eyes dart to Sam’s face, but his eyes are closed, and his features are relaxed for the first time since Gadreel.

“Relax,” Dean murmurs, his voice gone husky with the feel of Sam’s skin and Sam’s musky scent surrounding them. “The stitches will pull if you’re tense when I tie it off.” Moving slowly, carefully, waiting for that moment when Sam shoves him away, Dean leans in and presses his lips to Sam’s shoulder.

Sam doesn’t shove him away but instead lets out another long, harsh breath. “Dean.”

“Let it go, Sammy. For one fucking minute, just let it go and let me take care of you.”

A shudder runs through Sam’s big body and the slight slur doesn’t mask the pain. “That’s what got us into this mess. You taking care of me.”

Dean’s throat clicks when he swallows past the lump building there. He drags his hand over Sam’s shoulder to cup it over his heart. “I know. Fuck, Sammy. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He puts every bit of the heartache he’s been carrying into the words. Everything he’s been pushing away since that day in the kitchen when Sam said he wouldn’t save Dean, that they aren’t brothers anymore. He can’t change anything that happened, and they both know he’d do it again, but the thought of losing Sam guts him.

The groan low in Sam’s throat pulls Dean’s eyes to his face. Sam’s eyes are open, the hazel darkened to an almost mahogany brown, and he studies Dean with so much intensity Dean wants to look away. He forces himself to meet Sam’s gaze, to put every ounce of the fucked-up love he feels for his brother into the shimmering air between them.

Dean doesn’t know what he did right—so amazingly, life-savingly right—but Sam blinks and his features relax. “Tie off the stitches, Dean,” he murmurs, his voice husky and holding a bit of the warmth Dean has been dying to hear the last few weeks.

With hands that are only slightly shaking, Dean finishes the last few stitches and ties off the thread. He wipes the blood away and studies the black line against tanned skin. It isn’t his best work, but considering the fear and heartache induced adrenaline running through his system, he’s glad he was able to make the stitches relatively even.

When he turns to set the kit on the desk, Sam stands and slides up behind him. His arms circle Dean’s waist, and Dean represses a choked sob when warm, dry lips brush Dean’s neck. “This isn’t me forgiving you,” he whispers against Dean’s skin, but his body is hard against Dean’s back, and he rolls his hips to press his stiff cock against Dean’s ass. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean forces out, and he hates the tremble of relief and need and grief in his voice. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop the prickle of tears.

One big hand pushes Dean’s t-shirt up while the other pops the button on his jeans. “I don’t know how we get through this, or if we can,” Sam continues, his breath warm as he shifts to press kisses across the back of Dean’s neck to the tender spot beneath his left ear that drives Dean wild.

“I know—”

“Shut up, Dean.” The command in Sam’s voice snaps Dean’s jaw shut, but the hand shoving into his underwear to circle his aching cock drives a raw moan out. “It’s not healthy, how much you need me.” His hand strokes as well as he’s able to inside Dean’s tight jeans, and Dean’s hips buck to increase the pressure. “And you do need me, don’t you?”

Starlight bursts behind Dean’s eyelids and he realizes he’s been holding his breath. He makes a noise of assent, but there’s no way he can put into words how much he needs Sam. By his side and in his bed. He knows it’s wrong, fucked-up, unhealthy, but no one has ever meant as much to him or understood him the way Sam has.

Sam jerks his hand out of Dean’s pants and spins him in a movement so abrupt that Dean sways with the force of it. He reaches for Sam, but hands encircle his wrists so tight he can feel his bones shifting. “Take your clothes off,” Sam says, and Dean hates the evenness in his voice when his own pulse is racing. Sam steps away as he releases Dean’s wrists and by the time Dean has stripped, Sam is laying naked on the bed, one hand lazily stroking his dick.

Hesitant, wanting so badly—despite Sam’s words—for this to be a sign that Sam will eventually forgive him for the church, for Gadreel, for every fucked-up thing Dean has ever done, Dean can’t make his legs carry him the few feet to the bed.

“Dean,” Sam rasps, and Dean’s eyes snap to his. In the low light, Sam’s pupils are blown wide. “Come here.”

Dean crosses the room in three strides and slides onto the bed, his heart hammering against his ribcage. They’re usually playful when they’re like this, Dean poking and prodding and teasing until he drives down Sam’s defenses. He knows there’s a part of Sam that still feels guilty about this, that believes what the rest of the world thinks, that they’re sick, wrong, disgusting for being together this way.

But the rest of the world doesn’t know them. Doesn’t know what they’ve been through. Fuck the rest of the world, anyway. Dean has been with a lot of people, and Sam is the only one who has ever felt this right.

Sam’s hand is warm and steadying as he cups the back of Dean’s head, drawing him in and capturing his mouth in a kiss Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever experience again. As weird as it feels to let Sam run the show, the intensity in Sam’s kiss, the power in his embrace when he flips them over to cover Dean with his body, draws a whole-body shudder out of Dean.

Pinned to the bed by Sam’s weight between his spread legs, Dean can only slide his arms around Sam’s neck and hold on. His cock slides against Sam’s as he moves his hips in an echo of the way Sam’s tongue forces its way into Dean’s mouth. They must both be leaking by now because the drag of Sam’s skin against his shaft gets slippery and so, so good that Dean clenches his hands in Sam’s hair to stop himself from going off so soon.

Sam leans away, propping himself on one elbow, one hand dragging down Dean’s chest, fingers pinching and twisting his nipple, as he continues to thrust against Dean. He peppers kisses across Dean’s jaw, then drags his tongue over the pulse beating in Dean’s neck and Dean’s back bows when he pinches again.

“Fuck, Sam, please. I need—”

“What do you need?” Sam rolls his hips faster and dips his heads to drag his tongue over Dean’s abused nipple. He’s grinning when he looks up again. “You need me to make you come?”

“Not like this. Need you inside me. Please, need you to fuck me.”

Pupils blown so wide in the dim light they could be demon eyes, Sam stares down at Dean. “Is that why you can’t live without me? Because no one fucks you like I do?” A thread of cruelty runs through his words.

“Sam, please.” Dean strains up, hands scrabbling at Sam’s back, trying to capture his mouth.

Sam leans away, his eyes glittering. “Say it, Dean. Say that no one fucks you like I do. That you need me because no one else knows how to take you apart like I can.”

“No one, Sammy,” Dean breathes willingly. It’s the truth, after all. “Only you.”

Again, Sam moves so fast that Dean is left shaking, his face pushed into the mattress as Sam gets one arm around his hips and drags his ass into the air. Sam leans over him, reaching across his back, and then the snick of the lube bottle. Dean groans into the sheets when the cold slick slides over his hole, and then Sam is looming over him again. The head of his dick presses against Dean’s opening, but he stops before pressing in, one hand clenched on Dean’s hip to keep him from pushing backward.

“This is what you need?” Sam grunts, his voice harsh. “Why you can’t let me go? Why you’d burn the whole world down just so you don’t have to go without? Because you’re a slut for my cock?”

Dean doesn’t bother to capture the sob before it’s released. “Please, Sammy. I can’t do this, any of it, without you.”

“Because you need to get fucked every now and then?”

“Because I fucking love you. Because you’re my brother and I don’t know how to live in this fucked up, shitty world without you.” He shudders, the teasing pressure against his hole maddening. “I’m sorry, Sammy. Come on, please.”

Sam doesn’t respond, but he pushes forward at the same time as his hand on Dean’s hip drags him backward. After three weeks without, the burn of it takes Dean’s breath away. It feels like penance, like forgiveness, and tears leak down to soak the sheet under his cheek. They’re not from the pain—which is nearly gone by the time Sam pulls out and pushes back in again—but because everything in the world seems simple when they’re like this. When they’re connected, when the pleasure only Sam knows how to draw from his body races across his nerve endings and burns away every dark, horrible, shitty thing in Dean’s life.

Dean’s hands curl into the sheets, holding on as Sam takes whatever he wants. Slow and deep at first, then faster, his hips pistoning against Dean’s ass. He shifts the angle and his cock drags over Dean’s prostate, sending lightning coursing through Dean. He wants to ask, to beg, for Sam’s hand on his cock, but he’s having a hard time dragging in enough air to breathe, let alone form words.

But he doesn’t have to. As usual, Sam knows exactly what he needs. The callused grip tightens around Dean’s aching cock, each thrust pushing him forward into Sam’s fist. Sam folds over Dean’s body, the hand not stroking him planted next to Dean’s head, and whispers harshly, “Come for me, Dean. I’m not going to last much longer and if you don’t come before I do, you’re not going to.”

The gravel and grit in Sam’s voice as much as the words send sparks arcing through Dean’s body. Like the time he’d been electrocuted, and he’s not certain he’s any more likely to survive this as he was that. Except there was Sam. Sam saved him, just like Sam is saving him now. He might say he wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t make the sacrifices to save Dean, but his body moving over and inside Dean says otherwise.

White-hot pleasure coils deep inside Dean, gathering like a supernova, and on the next thrust, Sam’s cock brushes his prostate again. Dean tenses, the storm breaking inside him, rushing out from his core to leave his fingers and toes tingling. Sam jerks him through it as he empties himself into Sam’s fist.

When it’s over, Sam releases him and shoves him down flat, his stomach sliding in the mess he made of the sheets. He braces both arms on the bed on either side of Dean’s head and his thrusts lose any kind of finesse. The wet sheets drag against Dean’s overstimulated cock, sending little shockwaves of pleasure-pain through him. Just when he thinks he won’t be able to take any more, when he’s biting back the words begging Sam to stop, Sam thrusts in deep, his entire body trembling, and Dean can feel Sam’s cock pulsing inside him. Sam groans loudly, his hips grinding against Dean’s ass as he shudders through his release.

Sam’s arms give out and he falls against Dean’s back, driving what little air he’d managed to drag into his lungs out. At the whoosh of breath from Dean, Sam murmurs a slurred apology, but Dean moves one hand down to grip Sam’s hip when he starts to shift, pulling down and keeping Sam’s weight on him, his cock still buried in Dean’s body.

They lay like that for several minutes, Sam’s breath tickling the back of Dean’s neck until Sam’s cock softens enough to slip from Dean’s body. He murmurs a soft curse and this time when he rolls away, Dean lets him.

Dean keeps his face buried in the sheets as he listens to Sam moving around the room. A trickle of moisture seeps from his ass and the feeling is comforting rather than upsetting. Water runs in the sink, and then Sam is back, pushing Dean’s legs apart to drag the washcloth over his hole. It stings, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” Sam murmurs and for the first time tonight, there’s no censure or anger in his voice. “Roll over so I can clean you up.”

His hand on Dean’s hip helps him roll and the warm, wet cloth moves over his dick. Another rasp of fabric brushes his stomach and Dean opens his eyes to look down. Sam spreads a towel over the wet spot on the mattress, then throws the washcloth toward the sink. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he waits for Sam to tell him to leave.

But Sam pulls the blankets from where they’re tangled at the bottom of the bed and slides in next to Dean, gathering Dean into his arms as he pulls the blankets up over them. “This isn’t me forgiving you,” Sam says, his breath ruffling Dean’s hair. “I’m still pissed.”

Sam’s heartbeat is steady under Dean’s cheek and he nods. “I know, Sammy.”

The blankets move and Sam’s hand cards through Dean’s hair. “Go to sleep, Dean. We’ll figure it out in the morning.” 


End file.
